


Flirt

by bactaqueen



Category: Marvel Ultimates
Genre: Exactly What It Says on the Tin, F/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, shameless abh, sickeningly self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 02:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4122909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve comes in for a new costume fitting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flirt

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Recognizable characters belong to their respective owners. No profit is earned and no infringement is intended.
> 
> Author's Note: I want more Ults!Cap fic in the world and I believe in Character/Reader fics.

"Back so soon, Captain?"

"I couldn't stay away from your pretty face." He starts unbuttoning his khaki shirt as he toes off his brown low quarters.

You raise an eyebrow at him. "Flattery? Really?" Normally he saves the flattery until you're on your knees.

His smile is sardonic as he shrugs out of his shirt and drapes it over the back of the wooden chair beside your workstation. "Be gentle with me today. I just got out of a Cambodian torture camp." He reaches for his belt.

You turn away to give him privacy as he finishes disrobing and to retrieve the rest of what you'll need. Captain America's measurements don't change much, but there's a reason you're responsible for constructing superheroes' costumes, and lazy craftsmanship is not it.

And to think: before the Ultimates, your greatest ambition had been costuming on Broadway.

There is no play on Broadway that requires as many costumes as the Ultimates. Captain America in particular goes through so many that you never have any in reserve. Today you'll measure him for the standard three--and you'll make a fourth because he'll need it next week.

"The Cambodian torture camp is new for you." You finish bringing up his file in the app on your StarkPad and turn back to him.

He's standing in front of the platform, stripped down to white briefs and a snug white undershirt and nothing else. You press your lips together to control the threatening smirk.

"Didn't anyone tell you boxers are better for your sperm count?"

He winks at you. "I know how much you like the tighty whities."

Laughing, you shake your head and wave a hand at him, indicating he should climb up onto the platform. "What a gentleman you are. It's no wonder the girls love you, Captain Rogers."

"The only ones who love me are the ones who've seen me in my underwear." He steps up and centers himself, sets his feet shoulder-width apart, and relaxes.

You can see it, a rippling through his body, from his shoulders all the way to his calves. For a man standing in a cold room in just his underwear, he's remarkably at ease. You clutch the StarkPad in one arm and the tape measure in the other hand and start across the room to him.

He watches your reflection in the mirror. He always watches. It was unnerving at first, and thanks to his reputation and your new-job jitters you'd assumed he thought you couldn't do your work without his supervision. While you're not sure you're wrong about that--he  _is_  pretty fearsome and his reputation has only gotten worse in the years you've been working in the Triskelion--it's easier to accept his scrutiny now. He watches everyone like this.

You drag over your little footstool and center it behind him. He's a foot taller than you are when you're standing on level ground--now you need the boost just to reach his shoulders. You leave your StarkPad on the edge of the platform, activate the voice capture, verify that that's working correctly, and climb up.

You steadfastly avoid meeting his eyes in the mirror.

"How can any woman help loving you once she's seen you in your underwear? Arms out, please."

He spreads his arms and smiles a little. "I always knew you were just as shallow as us."

Smirking, you measure the width of his shoulders and double-check before you call out the numbers to your StarkPad. You measure along his spine from his collar to his waist, smoothing your hand the length of his back. Not for the first time, you notice how hot he runs and try not to think too hard about how nice that would be on cold nights.

"You've stumbled on the great secret of heterosexual womanhood, Captain. I hope you'll keep it to yourself. If we can't trust the Sentinel of Liberty, after all, who can we trust?"

He laughs. "As long as you don't believe I won't use it against you."

"Of course not." You call out the next set of numbers to be collected and rock back on your heels, looping the tape measure between your hands. "Turn, please. I need your arm."

He turns, arms dropped to his sides, head turned so he can watch you set the tape measure from his shoulder to his elbow. You lean in close enough you can hear his breath and try not to smell him (coffee, vintage aftershave). You check the number twice and call out to your StarkPad. So far, there's been no change from previous measurements. The thought crosses your mind that you could tell him you're done, that you could work off the last set of numbers and just call him in for a fitting in a couple of days.

But that would mean sending him away. Where's the fun in that?

You wink up at him. "You're a man, aren't you?"

His cheeks go pink. Not very pink, and if you weren't standing so close and looking for it you might not notice. It's gratifying.

"You're all the same," you go on, stepping off your little stool to measure him from elbow to wrist. You glance up at him,  _tsk_ ing. "We can't trust  _any_  of you with a secret if it'll help you get into our pants."

"We wouldn't  _need_  secrets if you wore skirts like you're supposed to."

"We'd wear skirts if you didn't value the chase so much."

The grin he gives you makes heat curl low in your belly and spread through your limbs.

So it goes. You measure, he teases, you counter. He's quick, and clever, and he never seems to take his eyes off of you.

Not even when you kneel on the edge of the platform in front of him. "Don't get any ideas, Captain." Measuring his inseam is always awkward.

"I can't even begin to imagine what kind of ideas you think I'd get, ma'am."

You look up to find him staring down, his eyes bright and calm. But there's the barest hint of a smirk on his lips and the tops of his cheeks are pink.

You tip your head, chin thrust out defiantly. "Well, I'm not going to spell them out for you." Even though you'd like to. It wouldn't be any effort at all to drop the tape measure, run your hands up his legs, push his undershirt up and tug down the front of his briefs...

"You're blushing. Maybe I should be telling you not to get any ideas?"

From the way he's looking at you, he knows exactly what you're thinking. That won't do at all. So you bat your eyelashes up at him. "I don't have any ideas. Totally empty up here." You tap your temple.

He laughs, sharp and surprised, so hard his belly jerks and his shoulders shake. The sound of his laughter warms you just as surely as his grin and, yes, maybe you relish it a little more than you should. You lean in to measure him from ankle to knee along his inseam.

"Don't think I don't know you dames play dumb when it suits."

That number hasn't changed; you don't bother keying it in, since the field populated from his previous measurements, anyway. You stretch the tape measure between your hands and look up at him again, doing your best to look clueless. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

He shifts his weight, spreading his legs just a few more inches apart, and leans forward almost imperceptibly. You set the edge of the tape measure against the inside of his ankle and run your hand slowly up the length of his leg.

"That doesn't seem very professional of you," he remarks, and you tell yourself that you're just imagining that his voice sounds a little rougher.

"Who said this was professional?" And you're not going to resist, not now, so you squeeze the inside of his thigh. "You can file a sexual harassment complaint with my superior if you want."

He chuckles. He reaches out and brushes his fingertips over your hair. "I won't if you have dinner with me tomorrow night."

"Oh, Captain, now I'm afraid  _I'll_  have to file a complaint against  _you_." You  _tsk_  again. "Blackmail? Really? I thought you were better than that." But you lean into his touch, just a little, just enough to feel the gentle pressure of his fingers against your scalp.

You've been dancing around this for months now. It's been so long, in fact, that you thought the invitation might never come, and you'd resigned yourself to the flirting that wouldn't go anywhere. Of course it had occurred to you that you could do the asking, but there was something all too appealing about letting him make the first move.

Your mother would be so disappointed in you.

Well, see how well your mother held on to her women's liberation principles when  _she_  was on her knees in front of  _Captain America_.

"I'm not above playing dirty if it gets the job done." He strokes the tips of his fingers over your ear before he pulls his hand away. "You're welcome to--what do the kids say?  _Cop a feel?_  But maybe you should buy me dinner first. I'm not that kind of fella, you know."

You laugh, sharp and breathless, and-- Hell. Feeling brave, you do cop a feel, cupping your hand over the front of his briefs.

He sighs heavily. "Now you  _have_  to marry me."

Your fingers skim the outside of his leg as you reach for your StarkPad. You save the new file and set the Pad aside, then sit back on your heels and look up at him.

"I'm not ready for that kind of commitment," you deadpan.

He grunts. "Women these days--none of you want to make honest men out of us." He holds his hand out, and when you take it, he tugs you to your feet. "You could at least buy me lunch."

"Coffee's the standard first date."

He cocks an eyebrow at you. "All the times you've seen me in my skivvies and you don't think we've moved past coffee?"

"Well," you sniff, "I don't know if I  _like_  you with your clothes on."

His lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile that sends heat curling through you. "You're going to say yes."

Of course you are. "Maybe." You shrug.

"Don't play hard to get."

"I'm not playing at all, Captain."

"You should start calling me Steve.  _Captain_ is too formal when I'm on top of you."

Color flares in your cheeks and your breath hitches. Your brain supplies the old fantasy of his broad shoulders under your hands and his face inches from yours as he pins you to your bed.

He knows exactly what he's done and he hides the smug smirk behind a light kiss to your knuckles. He squeezes your fingers lightly. "Have lunch with me today."

"I think I can do that."

"And dinner with me tomorrow night."

"What if the first date doesn't go well?"

"I believe in second chances."

You free your hand from his and he lets you go. You need the distance between the two of you to get yourself back together. You're a  _professional_ , for crying out loud. But you can feel his eyes on you, unwavering, as you retrieve your StarkPad and step off the platform.

"I've heard that about you," you say mildly. You leave your things on your workstation, take a deep breath, and turn to face him. You lean back against your table and let the sharp edge of it dig into your hip and keep you grounded.

He drops to sit on your little stool and starts pulling on his socks. "You've heard a lot about me." There might be a trace of bitterness in his voice.

"People like to talk about Captain America." The Triskelion is worse than high school for gossip, and he's been a hot topic since he came out of the ice.

"They say nice things about my Johnson, right?"

You choke on your breath. "Steve!"

He flashes you a grin, looking up from beneath his lashes. "Don't listen to buzz. It's bad for you." He stands and reaches for his pants. He takes his time putting them on, and you're sure he's flexing just for you. "When's your lunch break?"

"Whenever I want." Sure, you're staring. You're not  _dead_. He looks just as good putting his clothes on as he does taking them off, and that thought sends a delicious shiver down your spine.

He shrugs into his shirt and you can't take your eyes off his fingers as he fastens the buttons, quick and efficient.

"I have a meeting with Fury at noon," he's saying, "but I'll be done around fourteen hundred. Is that too late?"

You shake your head to clear the haze from it. You need to  _not_  think about those fingers. Not yet, anyway. "That's fine."

"Great." He finishes tucking his shirt into his trousers, no longer taking his time now, and fastens the shiny gold buckle of his belt. He picks his service shoes up with two hooked fingers and starts across the workspace to you. "I think I'm going to kiss you." It doesn't sound like he's uncertain about that at all.

There's that shiver again. "You think, huh?" You tip your head back to look up at him. To invite him.

He eases closer. "If you knee me in the groin, I might not."

That makes you laugh. "Might?"

"Might." He smiles. "I like your lipstick." He dips his head and when he brushes his mouth to yours, electricity dances down your spine. "Fourteen hundred," he murmurs, lips still near yours. "Meet me in the lobby. You pick where we eat."

"What if I want to eat you back at my place?"

"I'm free the rest of the afternoon."

You laugh a little, breathless now, hot all over and way too impatient for your lunch break. "I'll see you at two, Steve."

"See you at two." He steals another kiss, lips parted and tongue a hot flick over your bottom lip, then he backs away. "Don't forget."

As if you could. But, still, it doesn't hurt to keep...  _this_... going. "Forget what, Captain?"

He shakes his head, but there's the hint of a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. "It's a good thing you're pretty," he says.

"Yeah?" You wink. "Same to you."

He's laughing as he leaves.


End file.
